Carmella Commands
found that he was gone. “For two days,” said his wife. He had left hurriedly the night before. Yes, in answer to Carmella’s question, he had heard that Nicolo was pinched.
Carmella wondered. Never before had she heard of Mike’s leaving the city for so long. He was a retailer, not a “runner.” Business rarely called him far. It looked, Carmella feared, like desertion, and her anger rose.
They were at the police station long before court time. Little Italy’s hours were early. Carmella walked to the desk and roused the dozing sergeant.
“We’ll talk with Nicolo Pieri,” she said firmly.
“Huh!” said the sergeant, waking heavily.
“Nicolo Pieri. Quick! Here’s his mother to talk to him.”
“Say, kid,” said the sergeant, bending over the desk, “what alderman’s little girl are you? If you own this place, say so. If you don’t, cut out that ‘quick’ stuff. See?”
Carmela threw high voltage into her direct gaze and into her voice.
“Listen, cop,” she said. “I don’t know your name, but I can find it out easy enough. The only man around here I know is Captain Conners. But over at headquarters I know half of ’em. I’m a friend of Mike Laudini’s, if that means anything in your baby life. I’m a friend of Tom Barrington, the big real estate man. And my dad is Tom Coletta, and if that
[221]
